


King of Court

by nakimushi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Setter couple, Slow Build, Slow Burn, god i swear there's some semblance of order in this amalgamation of AU's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakimushi/pseuds/nakimushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tobio, soaked to the bone and drenched in the kind of despondence akin to a king without power, slumped against the window behind him, letting the back of his head hit the glass once, twice, thrice—wait, was that a crack he just heard? Slowly, he turned around to assess the damage only to meet a pair of soft copper eyes from inside the café that undoubtedly spoke volumes of concern. </p><p>What Tobio didn’t expect was the concern to be directed at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Court

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, um, this is the first time I've posted one of my fics, and although I'm not completely confident in my writing skills, I hope you all enjoy reading this, nonetheless. I tend to work at a snail's pace, so I apologize for the delay in updates. This is actually pretty short now that I think about it...

He's not going to reach the venue at this rate.

The rain showed no signs of letting up, and he regarded its calming presence with guilt potent enough to drown a man before begrudgingly deeming the situation beyond his control and, with much haste, slipped under the canopy of a café. He hoped his luggage was in better condition than he was lest he summon his senior’s wrath, and it was much to his relief to find his guitar still intact. He supposes it won’t do him any good worrying about what Oikawa would say at this point—either way he was going to get an earful. He could use this to curtail the consequences of his actions though, and he said as much to Iwaizumi who was far more lenient with the guitarist, even going so far as to agree to handle Oikawa for the duration of the afternoon.

“You need a break, anyway. Leave the idiot to me. Also, get home before you catch a cold,” Iwaizumi provided over the phone. It only served to alleviate some of his concerns. A part of him would rather face Oikawa now and admit that he doesn’t have a draft ready not because he lacked the capability (which Oikawa brought up more than was absolutely necessary, and if he found his taunts immensely grating then it was manifested in the way Iwaizumi launched his drumsticks at Oikawa’s head on a daily basis, declaring that if he started “praising” their lead guitarist in a manner that berated his own talent then he might as well step down as lead vocalist which effectively shut him up for a few minutes before the cycle started again) but found it pointless to make a song under pressure.

He knew that wouldn’t bode well with their lead singer, but he still couldn’t come to terms with his obstinacy and resorted to forcing his muse as he went along. The result was several days of stagnancy and pointless strumming that left him even more at a loss about what to do. Inspiration was something he couldn’t control—the _only_ thing he couldn’t control, he thought sourly—and distantly he wondered why he pursued a music career despite knowing this. He visibly scowled at the ground.

“Mm… thank you, Iwaizumi-san,” he replied, tension palpable in his words that made Iwaizumi hesitate before sighing just slightly and bidding him goodbye. Pocketing his phone, he glanced upwards hoping to find something—anything—to get him out of this rut, only to lose himself in the rhythmic patter of the rain.

Tobio, soaked to the bone and drenched in the kind of despondence akin to a king without power, slumped against the window behind him, letting the back of his head hit the glass once, twice, thrice—wait, was that a crack he just heard? Slowly, he turned around to assess the damage only to meet a pair of soft copper eyes from inside the café that undoubtedly spoke volumes of concern.

What Tobio didn’t expect was the concern to be directed at him.

 

So when the boy rushed outside with alarm etched on his face, swiftly ducked under the canopy, gently held Tobio’s face in his warm hands, stood on his tiptoes to look more closely, tentatively ran his fingers along the back of the guitarist’s head, sighed with relief when he found no trace of injury, beamed up at Tobio when he deemed it appropriate to let his worry subside, and invited him inside to warm up, Tobio was surprised the first thing he registered upon meeting the barista was how he smelled faintly of cinnamon.

 

* * *

 

Unlike most coffee shops littered across the campus, he could tell this one was tailored with care and taste one won’t find anywhere else. There were bookshelves arranged in a manner that was accessible to the patrons if they decided to read while they had their fill. And judging by the way they seem to systematically take out books, most of them were regulars. The majority of the bookshelves were constructed within reach: either on the wall near the windows, or conveniently placed near the tables. He vaguely remembers seeing a list of recommendations on the chalkboard outside and realizes now that the drinks were paired up with certain books.

It was a quaint and comfortable establishment. He appreciated the amount of thought and effort put into it. At the same time, however, he felt incredibly uncomfortable when the customers peered at him from over their books, and he pointedly glared in their general direction. In the back of his mind, he knows the scrutiny was warranted judging by the amount of puddles he tracked once he set foot inside, and wanted nothing more than to go home once the rain let up. He couldn’t decline the barista’s offer though, so here he was fighting down a blush while he stood paralyzed in the middle of the shop, waiting for the man to return from the staff room—it would be rude of him to leave without apologizing, expressing his gratitude… and compensating for the broken window.

 

How the hell did that happen, anyway?

 

He can admit that he was hardheaded but not in the literal-glass-shattering sense. Maybe the stress was really getting to him and he didn’t realize how hard he was hitting the glass until it shattered.

“That window was apparently nicked right in the spot you rested your head against, so don’t worry about paying for it,” the barista supplied.  
 

Tobio whipped his head around to find the man approaching him with a towel and a spare uniform slung on his arm. Now that they were under proper lighting Tobio could pinpoint finer details about the man before him. His silver hair was slightly damp from the rain so parts of his fringe were stuck to his forehead, but he supposes that was how it was styled to begin with. His flushed cheeks enhanced his amiable and kind disposition which he noted to be genuine enough to make him a little envious. It was apparent that he was shorter than Tobio, but possessed a mature demeanour that made the latter wonder who was really the younger one here. The barista’s eyes were a light brown and upon closer inspection reveals that they took on a more amber shade, soft yet unyielding. He always made eye contact, and there was something comforting yet piercing about the way he stared—it was like he could read you like a book. He watched as his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and followed the beauty mark that was nestled below his left eye.

 

If Tobio had to name one thing that he would identify the boy with it would be his smile.

 

“Here, use this to dry up.”

 

His other defining feature was his voice.

 

It was certainly charismatic and every syllable uttered was punctuated with an air of confidence. There was something about how it grabbed his attention, almost as if he wouldn’t be able to ignore it even if he tried (he couldn’t think of a reason why he would ignore it in the first place.) Like the boy himself, his voice was gentle but its presence rang as clear as day, and it reminded him of rain all the same—soothing, safe. He wanted to lose himself in it. 

Fate apparently had other plans in store because the brunette took too long to respond and was assaulted with a towel to his face. Meticulous fingers proceeded to dry his cheeks then steadily made their way to his hair which required much more attention. Tobio was taken aback by the sudden insistent gesture and it left his mind reeling for a few seconds.

 

“You’re gonna catch a cold at this rate, haha.”

 

 _Ah_ , _he has a nice laugh, too,_ he thought, then caught himself before he could dwell on this—whatever the hell this was—any more than he already has because this is _not_ the reason why he decided to stick around and, by reflex, grabbed the barista’s wrists before he could even question the action.

“U-Um,” Tobio eloquently articulated—a bit more forcefully than he originally intended, he thought solemnly when a few customers shifted their focus in their general direction—before looking the other in the eye, then promptly blanching when the barista tilted his head slightly to the side in evident confusion. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. “I-It’s still my fault—that the window broke, I-I mean. P-Please let me pay for it…” 

The barista blinked once, twice, then huffed out something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle before waving his hands in defeat.

 

“Fine, fine. You’re lucky I’m the only manager present right now otherwise Tanaka would have demanded for your head on a silver platter as compensation instead.”

“… I—“

“I’m just kidding. But—oh dear—“

 

Tobio blinked at the sudden shift in the barista’s expression then realized, with abject horror, that he was still gripping the other man’s wrists.

 

The next few seconds happened like this: The scent of cinnamon was suddenly too close to his liking, and the source of his distress was inching its way towards his face, more specifically his forehead.  He felt the temperature in the room drop ten degrees below freezing point but it simultaneously felt too hot; he was certain his face was going to detonate if the looks the customers were throwing their way were anything to go by. His palms started sweating but for some inexplicable reason he didn’t let go, and it was the _goddamn reason_ why he was still in this predicament but as it stood he was undoubtedly paralyzed. As for the reason why he couldn’t move, it was literally staring him right in the face, concern only a mother could emulate but something else he couldn’t quite place. Normally he would have attempted (read as: failed) to defuse the situation through intimidation which was more or less a habit he never grew out of, but the change of circumstance not only rendered him incapable of accessing his fight or flight instincts but made him entirely conscious of the other party which only applied to (very few) close friends and family. He reasoned that it was because of the amount of coffee fumes he’s been inhaling ever since he walked in, but that didn’t explain why the barista had his forehead against Tobio’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then it was over: the guitarist collected his bearings and yanked himself a good few steps back, bolting out the door before anyone could stop him. He welcomed the rain like an old friend, opened his heart to the freezing torrent in hopes of stopping the incessant pounding in his ears, and just ran. A litany of curses escaped his shaking mouth as he continued to distance himself from the warmth of the café—most importantly, the warmth that has apparently taken up permanent residence on his face. Tobio knew what this was, but he refused to accept it. He scowled viciously at the ground as he continued to fumble his way in the dark, boots stomping on puddle after puddle until he no longer cared when water had seeped into them. He can reign this in; there was no reason why he should hold onto the charming toothy grins he received, nor should he have taken the hurt in amber orbs so much into consideration when he left... right? Goddammit, why could he still smell cinnamon? Why was this happening? Why did he care so much?

 

… Where the hell was his guitar?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Suga conducting this trainwreck. And Kageyama as the train.


End file.
